


Heir Apparent

by HisAngelThursday



Series: Gangster Idiots in Love [5]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: (just adding that to be safe), Aftercare, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BDSM, Bondage, Bottom Tommy Shelby, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Fluff, Gags, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Morning Sex, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut, Spreader Bars, Top Alfie Solomons, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27946364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisAngelThursday/pseuds/HisAngelThursday
Summary: Tommy is already juggling a confusing but happy developing relationship, a dysfunctional family, and a semi-legal business.The only way to make it worse? His father comes to town.
Relationships: Ada Shelby & Tommy Shelby, Arthur Shelby & Tommy Shelby, Tommy Shelby & Arthur Shelby Sr., Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Gangster Idiots in Love [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756609
Comments: 78
Kudos: 210





	1. Chapter 1

Tommy, an unsound sleeper who also happens to be riddled with anxiety, is always startled to wake in a bed that’s not his own. This morning, it’s the smell of cooking that reminds him he’s not in his own house. Ada never makes breakfast beyond bread, jam, and tea – this is the rich sizzling of cooking oils, of someone who actually knows what they’re doing. 

The still-warm, vacant spot next to him, and the distinctive rich, heady, smell, confirms to him what he already knows: he’s at Alfie’s house. Again. 

Becoming more aware of himself and his surroundings, he realizes he’s wearing one of Alfie’s sleeping shirts. He feels achy, tender in intimate places. If this weren’t enough to remind him of last night’s activities, the plum purple love bruises on his inner thighs would be. 

His face gets hot. Fuck, if Alfie can’t make him feel like he’s back in short trousers. Even when he was an actual virgin, he didn’t feel this bashful. The first time he’d been with a woman, he’d worked her over methodically, patiently and pragmatically rooting out the most efficient methods of evoking pleasure. 

Granted, it had always been different with men – maybe because the men he gravitated towards viewed him differently. They were big, burly men, the more dangerous the better, who saw him as a pretty thing instead of a dark, cold-hearted gangster prince. He sought out such men when he needed to alleviate urges beyond simple sexual release – when the world got to be too much to him, and he was sick of giving out fucking orders. 

Of course, he eventually realized that he could get the same effect from certain women – that there were plenty of doll-faced, delicate ladies who were more than happy to tie him up and whip his tender spots purple. He found the safest way was to pay them, however, for the sake of discretion. A secret like that being brought to public attention could crumble his empire.

He’s not sure what, exactly, he expected to happen after he married. Just like his desire for men, perhaps he’d always assumed that his urge to be subjugated would simply go away. 

He rolls delicately from the bed, relieved to see it’s only seven fifteen. He’d told Alfie not to let him sleep past eight – sleeping in, by his standards. It’s Sunday, and he intends to use his employee’s day of rest to conduct a family meeting and refine their plan for the quarter. 

When he sleeps with Alfie, it’s almost always at Alfie’s house. He doesn’t want to do it at home where Ada can figure out what they’re up to, even though she already knows. Polly too, of course. It mortifies him to no end. 

As much as he tries to shrug off his feelings about it, to not care, to shut them down like he shuts down everything else, the knowledge that they both know he gets fucked by a man makes him cringe with shame. He doesn’t even know what he’ll do if his brothers find out – Polly and Ada may not be vocal about any prejudices they might harbor, but he needs his brothers’ respect for the business to function. 

He tries not to worry too much about hypotheticals, instead mentally planning his tasks for the week as he squirted paste onto his toothbrush. Tommy, with his fastidious attention to grooming, always brought a portable toothbrush with him when he knew he’d stay the night somewhere, but at some point he’d deemed it necessary to leave some toiletries in Alfie’s bathroom: conditioner and shampoo, besides that cheap shit Alfie used. A better razor. Perfume and aftershave and body lotion and exfoliating cream and moisturizer. 

“If I’d known you’d clutter up the place with all your potions, Princess, I might not have let you into my tower,” Alfie had remarked, though Tommy could tell he was pleased that he was making himself more at home. 

He’d already talked nebulously about getting their own place. “With room for a dog for me, and a pasture for your...hoofdogs.” 

“Horses?”

“Yeah, well, they’re like dogs. Just bigger and more inconvenient. Hoofdogs.” 

Tommy had desperately wanted to deny Alfie sex for that remark, but Alfie always made that difficult. His fingers were as clever as his mind. 

This had become a relationship. It would be foolish to deny that to himself. He still assures himself that it won’t last, couldn’t, that they’re incompatible. That Alfie’s absurd prophecy that they were soulmates, destined to marry, won’t come to fruition. 

And yet – he has a toothbrush here. And as hard as he tries, it was getting harder and harder to imagine his life without Alfie in it, harder and harder to sleep alone. 

The phone rings, loud and jarring as a fire alarm. 

“Alfie,” he shouts, leaning out of the bathroom door, toothbrush pocketed in his cheek. 

“Yes, poppet?” bellows back a voice from downstairs. 

“Answer your fucking phone!”

“But it’s  _ early, _ ” Alfie whines. 

“Do it! And I’ll make it worth your while tonight.” Did he really just say that? When had he become such a tart? 

And yet, it works – Tommy can make out grumbling and clattering and a muffled, “‘Ello? Yeah, certainly, he’s upstairs.” 

Tommy’s chest sinks, even before Alfie calls, “Sweetie! It’s for you!”

He’d told Ada to call him here if there was an emergency. And that’s the last thing he needs right now. 

* * *

Tommy doesn’t like leaving the bedroom like this – hair mussy, sleep in his eyes, still in Alfie’s sleeping shirt. Mostly because he can’t bear the affection in Alfie’s eyes. The man’s barely tolerable as is. 

“It’s Ladybird,” Alfie informs him, even though he knows full well his sister’s name is Ada. 

“I’ll take that, thank you,” says Tommy snidely, accepting the phone. Alfie lumbers out of the room, to at least give the appearance of respecting his privacy. “Hello, Ada.”

“Tom.” There’s a barely perceptible note of anxiety to her voice, even over the hum of the receiver. Tommy’s own concern tightens. “How is everything? Did you sleep?”

Tommy runs his hand over his face. “What is it, Ada?” He's anxious to know what was going on, and Ada’s attempts to project normalcy aren’t helping. 

There's a pause. “You have to promise you won’t get angry, or panic.”

“I won’t panic, Ada, but I might get angry if you don’t tell me.”

Ada tells him. And Tommy stares at the glistening gilded latkes that Alfie had left on a plate, each shiny with oil. Tommy feels his throat bob. 

Fuck. As if he doesn’t have enough on.  _ Fuck _ . 

On top of everything else, on top of juggling family and business and some kind of budding relationship…

His father is in town.


	2. Chapter 2

“He turned up at Arthur’s house last night,” Ada continued. “You know how Arthur is, he almost didn’t want to tell me. Probably why Dad went to him – no one else believes him anymore.” 

The word _ Dad _ sounds strange coming from Ada’s lips. It was a word she said very little.

Tommy says nothing. If his father’s in town, that means he wants more than just a willing ear into which he could spill his lies. He wants something – money, authority, protection – and he’d be harder to get rid of than a flea on the back of a dog. Regardless of his father’s selfishness, the man has nothing to lose but his own slimy hide.

“I’ll deal with it. Tell Arthur he did the right thing,” says Tommy, even though he wants to throttle Arthur for still entertaining the sadistic bastard. “Pretend you haven’t spoken to me about it. I’ll wait to see who brings it up at the family meeting.” 

“Well, for heaven’s sake, why?” 

Tommy could explain that he wants to see who brings it up, and judge how the others react, because it will tell him a lot about where his loyalties lie. But he finds he doesn’t have the energy right now. “You’re a clever girl, Ada. You can figure it out.” Without waiting for her outraged reply, he concludes, “See you at the family meeting, then.” 

He hangs up, and stands in the pool of sunlight in front of Alfie’s sink, trying to feel something. It’s been a long time since he was afraid of his father, since his heart pounded even as he glared up at him. He seems so trite, so small and pathetic, compared to the evils Tommy had seen. 

Tommy can handle this. But he knows that his presence will make everyone revert back to some infantile state, the way they would if they ran into some old childhood nemesis. It will make them difficult to manage. 

“You seem stressed, darling.” Tommy glances up as Alfie takes the phone out of his hand, setting it on the counter. “Anything you want to talk about?”

Tommy shakes his head. “I’m dealing with it.”

“Hmm. Look at that.” Alfie tilts Tommy’s chin towards him. He’s beautiful, his hair and beard set ablaze by the morning sun. “Still pretending.” 

“I’m not pretending.” 

“Yeah, you are. You’re pretending to be hard and fierce and brave. But look at you,” Alfie’s eyes rove shamelessly over him. “All fluffy-haired and sleepy-eyed, soft as anything. Can’t pretend around me, love.”

Alfie’s hands cup his pectorals as if they’re breasts, his thumbs rubbing circles around his nipples through the cotton material. Tommy feels heat rise in his neck at the gesture. It’s casually degrading, and makes him feel small and tender. 

“We should have breakfast, yeah,” says Alfie. “You’ve got to get to work soon, I’ll bet.”

Tommy nods. He doesn’t want to feel small right now – not with his father so nearby. But he can’t bring himself to step back, or push Alfie away. His hands are so warm. 

“But first –” Alfie’s hands rome hungrily down Tommy’s sides, and squeeze his arse proprietorially – “I think I need a starter.” 

Before Tommy can protest, Alfie’s on his knees, lifting the cotton fabric of the sleeping shirt. “Look at that. Not wearing any underclothes.” Alfie clicks his tongue. “You understand I’ll have to punish you for this later, Tommy. Can’t have this kind of promiscuous behavior in me own home, can I?”

Tommy’s face burns, even as lust pools inside of him. Even more so as Alfie disappears underneath the shirt, pressing his face to Tommy’s soft prick and inhaling deeply. “Love the smell of you in the morning. Before you soak in all your fucking potions.” He presses a kiss to the crease between his groin and his thigh. Tommy’s prick stirs. “Nothing but musk and love.”

Tommy puts his hands on top of Alfie’s head, not sure if it’s to push him away or keep him there. “Alfie –” 

“Don’t worry, sweetie, this won’t take a minute.” Alfie’s fingers delicately cradle his hardening prick, holding it right to the plumpness of Alfie’s lips. Hot breath ghosts over the tip, and Tommy twitches helplessly. “Need to properly bid you good morning, don’t I?”

* * *

Tommy arrives downstairs again an hour later, this time buttoned up neatly in his pristine suit, tucking a gun into his shoulder holster. Alfie eyes him smugly over the newspaper. 

The look in his eyes says it all: Tommy can fool the world, but he can’t fool Alfie. Especially not after he just whimpered and spilled down Alfie’s throat first thing in the morning, leaning against the counter to stop his knees from buckling. 

“Family business today, is it?” Alfie asks, adjusting his half moon spectacles. “The wolves that raised you having a quarrel again?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” It’s not far from the truth. His father is like a spirit of discord, and conflict always erupts when he comes near. Tommy tucks his car keys into his pocket, and collects the to-go mug of coffee Alfie left on the table for him.

“Sounds stressful. Hopefully I was able to help you manage that a little.” He’s caught by surprise when Alfie shamelessly squeezes his arse through his suit, his back going ramrod straight. “Do a little more stress management tonight, hmm?”

Tommy swallows. Nods, trying not to show Alfie how much power he has over him. Of course the bastard knows. 

“Come on, then. Give us a kiss goodbye.”

Tommy, again, is helpless but to obey.

* * *

Tommy knows his brothers will eventually find out about Alfie. It’s better if he tells them, if he can projects power and certainty, and pretends he doesn’t care what they think. 

John might whine for a while about how it ain’t right, how Tommy’s going insane from want of a woman, and he just needs someone soft and willing to make him forget this nonsense, but he’ll come ‘round. He moans on principle, but at his core his loyal to Tommy.

Arthur, though, is very much his father’s son. He didn’t get his cruelty, his sadism, but he did inherit his rage, and he manages it with guilt and psalms that he probably doesn’t even believe. He’ll project that guilt onto Tommy, quote about how men shouldn’t lay with other men, keep his eyes downcast whenever Tommy’s in the room, as if Tommy did this purposefully to hurt him. It’ll go on like that for weeks. 

Tommy shakes his head as he gets out of the car, the winter air nipping his cheeks. He has more pressing matters to worry about. He needs to figure out what his father wants, and get the bastard out of town – fast.

Inside, the air is musty with dust and dampness, and it smells like home. Yet he feels, on some gut-deep level, that something is wrong. It’s too quiet. Why isn’t anyone talking, fucking arguing?

The first thing he sees, as steps through the doorway, is his family, staring out at him as if from a photograph. And he smells the bastard before he sees him. The pungence of his aftershave, as if he bathes in liquor.

“Hello, son.”


	3. Arthur Senior Comes Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy confronts his father, and is surprised by the tenderness of old wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been super busy last month, so I decided to post a short one, just to get the momentum rolling again! Fic writing may be my greatest stress outlet, so I should be back to posting at least once or twice a week from now on.
> 
> This will probably be longer than five chapters, or I'll continue this storyline in the next part to the series. I haven't decided.
> 
> Smut will feature heavily in the next chapter, as Tommy turns to his boyfriend for some "stress release..."

Adrenaline pulses coldly through Tommy. He hates that he still has this response to his father – that the years between them and the men he’s killed and the ferocity he’s cultivated fail to provide a sufficient barrier.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Tommy is an expert at keeping fear out of his voice. Not that he’s afraid of his father, exactly – he knows, consciously, that he’s quick enough to slit the man’s throat before he comes near him. But the memory of fear still grips him, as if his body doesn’t understand that the dynamic has changed.

“S’what I asked meself,” John mutters, sour-faced. “Maybe you should ask Arthur.”

John had been at just the wrong age for their father to leave. Too young to retain the few good memories they had, but old enough to remember the bitter disappointment of being abandoned. 

Arthur, though – Arthur was the closest thing his father had to a favorite. At least when Tommy was a child. Small and slight and “pretty as a pansy,” his father had sneered on more than one occasion, with “the cold stare of something pure evil,” Arthur Senior’s disgust towards Tommy must have made Arthur more appealing by comparison. 

When they were little, it was Arthur who’d gotten the few moments of physical affection and kind words their father had spared, the occasional ruffle to the hair and “good job, son.” 

This didn’t make Tommy resent Arthur. He pitied him then, and still does. Unlike Tommy, who’d felt a wave of relief when their father had left, Arthur actually had something to grieve. 

He sits at the table now, Arthur – eyes downturned, like a kicked hound. “He came to me house last night, Tom,” he mutters dutifully. “He’s changed.”

Tommy steps forward. “And how do you know that, Arthur?” He keeps his voice quiet, calm. “I suppose he told you?”

Arthur Senior steps between them, and something spikes sharply in Tommy’s chest. “Now now, son. Is that any way to speak to the head of the household?” He gestures to Arthur, who seems to want to sink into his clothes and disappear.

Polly and Ada exchange a glance, eyebrows raised. 

“Tommy, um. He helps, Dad,” Arthur mutters, and Tommy feels a wave of pity for his brother. 

“Tommy runs the family, I think you mean,” John speaks up. “And he’s done a better job of it than you ever did, that’s for damn sure.”

Tommy would add that everyone in the family has their role – that Arthur’s integral to the success of the business. But he can assuage Arthur’s pain at his usurped birthright after he’s gotten their bastard of a father the hell out of here. 

Arthur Senior, to his credit, only seethes quietly at this revelation. And Tommy doubts most people, besides him, would be able to notice his rage at all: a subtle twitch of his eyebrow, a slight quiver to his nostril. He clearly gathers himself, before he dares to speak again.

“So, my boys are working together, are they?” he says, with an air of strained cheer.

“And your girl,” Polly adds. “You have a daughter, too.”

“Of course I do.” He smiles at Ada, whose expression stays flat and unamused, her arms folded in front of her. “And all of you are working as one, just as I’ve hoped in all the years we’ve been apart. Now that I’m back –” 

“Now that you’re back, we’ll be glad to see you on your way,” Tommy concludes for him.

Arthur looks up, eyes hurt. “Tommy –”

“Shut up.” It’s not the time to coddle Arthur’s feelings. “We needed you ten years ago, if then. Not now.”

“Oh, have a heart, son.” His father steps towards him, arms open, inviting. “I’m a changed man.”

Arthur Senior’s posture reminds Tommy of something. Of the times when he would occasionally goad Tommy to fight back. “Come on, hit me, boy!” Tommy can still hear the drunken slur. “Be a man, why don’t ya.” 

Tommy doesn’t twitch – he won’t show weakness, and he’s adept at hiding it. “Get the fuck out. And don’t let me see you again.”

Arthur Senior’s expression falls, a murderous glint in his eyes. He looks around the room, and when he realizes that no one present will challenge their leader, he seems to resign himself to this setback. He puts on his hat.

“If anyone needs me –” he starts towards the door with a mournful saunter – “I’ll be at the Midlands Hotel.” He pauses and eyes Tommy as he walks past. “Quite something you’ve become.”

The room is too quiet once he’s gone. Tommy can feel the tensions brewing around him, even before anyone deigns to speak. 

“He’s changed,” Arthur mutters. “I can tell, Tommy.”

Polly scoffs. “Please. And I suppose you also believe he’s said goodbye to gin in favor of Jesus?”

“This is what he was afraid of, you know.” Arthur’s eyes dart around the room. “That nobody would believe him. He said so. If you’d heard him, you wouldn’t be doubting him now.”

Tommy constricts his own fury. It’s important to keep the peace. “I won’t have Finn exposed to him, Arthur. He’s still a boy of fourteen. Nor will I risk what we’ve built,” he says calmly. “We should all focus on moving forward.”

He’s sure he’s hiding all of his tells, but Polly is eyeing him with a knowing glint. She knows he’s hiding fathoms, and for a moment, he hates her for it. That she can see his weakness.

“Maybe you just don’t want me listening to someone who thinks I can do something right,” Arthur mutters. 

Tommy can tell he regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth – he looks at his hands, sheepishly – but it doesn’t matter. The sentiment is there. That will cause problems. 

For now, he ignores the bitter statement. “Now. Business for the day,” he begins, though unease keeps him from standing steady. 

They haven’t seen the last of Arthur Shelby Senior. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy goes to Alfie for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've delegated the smut to the next chapter, just to build up the suspense a bit. 
> 
> As I mentioned before, the Arthur Sr. saga will be continued in the next part of this series.

An hour after his father leaves, half an hour after the family meeting, Tommy’s hands start shaking. Subtly, yet, uncontrollably, as though they’ve never been able to do anything else.

He first notices as he grips the steering wheel of his car, the faint tremor. He sits there a moment, parked in front of the building, regarding his trembling hand.

He used to shake when he was a child, too. Not wanting to burden his mother – maybe too ashamed to – he’d find a dark place to curl up with his knees at his chest and suck his fingers to calm himself down. It disgusts him to think about the power his father once had over him. 

The best thing to do, of course, is to work. An idle mind is the last thing he needs. And it’s effective: throughout the day, he devotes himself to the great, unending chess game of his life. It’s a relief to lose himself in the immediacy of the now. The soldier’s minute, in which the past and future blissfully vanish.

Except, of course, it’s still waiting for him after the long day’s end, when he finally gets back into the car to drive home and finds that the silence hangs even heavier than it did before. The darkness thick as ink, as tar, seeping into his cracks, into his lungs. 

He wants Alfie. He wants badly to be held and kissed, the warmth breathed back into his cupped hands, as if on a cold day. It’s one of his most shameful pleasures, how much he loves Alfie’s strength, his solidity. He wants Alfie’s big, bearlike form to cup him from behind and keep him safe through the night.

But he doesn’t deserve that, does he? As a child, yes, when he wasn’t blackened by choices. The evils he’s committed, so his family won’t have to – so the next generation won’t have to choose.

* * *

When Tommy arrives at Alfie’s house, Alfie is lumbering down the stairs, looking like he just emerged from hibernation. “Heard you pull up, sweetie,” he mumbles, sleep still cracking his voice. “I’ve got a plate for you in the oven, I knew you’d be out til some unholy fucking hour –” 

Alfie doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Tommy’s marching towards him like a man going to war. He wants him. He wants the sleep in his eyes and his bed-mussed hair. He wants and his love and his tenderness and his protection, even though he knows he’ll never deserve it. Mostly, Tommy wants to feel something other than cold.

He practically smashes his lips into Alfie’s, and Alfie lets it happen – clearly bemused at first, brow furrowed, before his instincts take over and he’s kissing Tommy back. His lips are so warm, and Tommy rocks his face from side to side to feel the friction of his beard. 

Alfie’s hands are on his shoulders, and next thing he knows, Tommy’s been flipped up against the wall. Alfie pulls back, an obscene thread of saliva connecting their lips, hunger in his eyes. Tommy doesn’t deserve to be wanted like this. 

He squirms with discomfort as Alfie begins to ravage his neck, the softness of his lips contrasting with his prickly beard. It makes Tommy feel soft inside, tender. He can’t afford to feel that way – to feel good right now. He doesn't deserve this. 

“Hit me,” he demands.

Alfie goes still against his neck. Slowly, he pulls back, and regards Tommy quizzically. Tommy can still feel the wetness on his neck, see it shining on Alfie’s plump lower lip, and heat rises inside of him. 

He doesn’t understand Alfie’s hesitation. Alfie’s hit him before, consensually – aside from the spankings (it’s hard for Tommy to even think of that word without flushing hot) it’s usually an open-palmed smack across the face. It humbles him, makes his dick jump shamefully. He can’t understand why Alfie’s hesitating now. 

Alfie’s eyes scan his face, dark and glittering in the dim light. Tommy wants to shy away, but there’s nowhere for him to go, boxed in by Alfie’s arms. An unshakable feeling creeps over him that Alfie can see right through him. 

“No, love.” Alfie’s voice rumbles softly, like the night itself is speaking. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie punishes Tommy, but not in the way Tommy hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I decided to split this in two, as it was too long in proportion to the other chapters! The smutty and sweet conclusion will be up in the next couple days, and the Arthur Sr. saga will continue in the next installment of this series.
> 
> I derived a bit of last minute inspiration from "obligations" by 56741, which I highly, highly recommend you all check out.

“Now, darling. Take off your clothes.” Alfie’s using that tone of voice that ignites fury and frustration in Tommy – self-satisfied and self-certain and undeniably smug. 

It doesn’t help that he’s making no effort to get undressed himself, sitting like a barron beneath his ridiculous painting of a German Shepherd dressed as a Baroque aristocrat. As if Tommy were a common whore, here for Alfie’s amusement. 

Tommy simply juts his chin, not in the mood to make Alfie’s job easy tonight. “Maybe you should make me.” 

He wants to be punished, anyway. If he takes off his clothes, Alfie will make him sit on his lap, touch him gently all over while whispering the sweetest, most degrading things. Sometimes, Tommy hides his face against Alfie, physically incapable of looking at him. Alfie seems to delight in that, his ability to render Tommy meek and bashful. He’ll use his clever fingers to coax pleasure and humiliating sounds and, eventually, an orgasm. And Alfie usually holds him afterwards, soft and warm and too sated to protest. He doesn’t want to be soft and warm tonight. 

Still, Tommy begins to suspect he’s made a mistake when Alfie rises to his feet with a feral glint in his eye. He takes his time lumbering over, taking up space with his sauntering gate, and Tommy steals himself. Alfie will probably slap him for his efforts – which was, of course, what he was hoping for. 

Instead, Alfie kisses him. Possessively, gently, lapping softly inside of Tommy’s mouth as it opens in surprise. His center of gravity shifts, and he’s being lifted. Fuck, and he can’t even resist, because Alfie’s still kissing him, as if he weighs nothing.

He’s deposited on the bed, and Alfie’s mouth still never leaves his. His clothes are being removed – he feels Alfie working buttons, pulling and tugging with methodical fervor, and he’s too stunned to do anything but lay on his back as he’s rendered completely bare. He almost reaches to stop Alfie from removing his underwear, as bizarre as that is – Alfie’s seen his prick many, many times – but there’s something about being on his back, and so complacent, that makes him feel particularly exposed. 

Once Tommy is naked, Alfie lords over him, caging him in with his arms as his eyes rove hungrily over every bare inch. Tommy tries to glare back, and feels fucking ridiculous when he remembers how helpless he must look compared to Alfie right now.

“My, my. Aren’t you a sight,” he grumbles, voice rich with delight and lust. Fury and shame burn hot inside of Tommy, but he can’t quite bring himself to contradict Alfie – looming over him, he radiates power. “Here’s what’s going to happen, love. The rules, right – the rules are that you are not allowed to move. Each time you move, I’ll fucking punish you. Yeah? Nod if you understand.” 

Tommy doesn’t like to be talked down to, but he makes himself nod. He’ll goad Alfie into punishing him, and maybe then he’ll feel less tender.

But he can’t think much about that, because Alfie’s kissing him again. Slowly, methodically, working his way down Tommy’s neck. Sucking bruises that will surely be there in the morning. 

Tommy shoves him. “I have to work tomorrow, you fucking bastard.” 

Alfie raises his eyebrows. “Now, what did I just say? Can’t even retain a simple rule in your silly little head, can you. You’re lucky I like them pretty and dumb, my darling.”

“You fucking –”

Alfie has no interest in waiting for Tommy to finish that sentiment, because he’s already getting to his feet. Tommy is ashamed at how much he misses the solidity of his heat, his weight on top of him, because that’s not what this is about, is it?

Alfie returns with a pair of leather cuffs. “Brand new. Been waiting to use them,” he explains, knee-walking up to Tommy and straddling him once more. Tommy is once again abashed at the disparity between them: Alfie fully dressed while he lies beneath him, naked and pink as the day he was born. “Arms up,” Alfie instructs.

When Tommy hesitates, trying to think of an adequate way to protest, Alfie simply takes Tommy’s hands in his own and pulls them firmly over Tommy’s head. He pins his wrists together with one hand as he locks them into their cuffs.

Tommy’s cock pulses. Fuck, Alfie’s strong. Tommy’s spent his whole life cultivating strength – he wasn’t born to be strong by any means, a bird-boned child who would have grown into a bird-boned man if it weren’t for his regiment of exercise and the necessity of fighting – and yet Alfie dominates him so effortlessly. 

What would his father think if he could see him now? Probably that Tommy is proving him right: that he’s weak and effeminate, the runt of the litter.

“Oy.” Alfie, frustratingly lightly, taps his cheek. “None of that, yeah? You just went somewhere, right, and I want you here with me.”

“I thought I asked you to hit me.” Tommy very badly wants some physical pain. It feels wrong to remain so physically comfortable when the emotional ache remains so persistent. 

Alfie shakes his head. He looks almost smug about denying him. “Not a hitting night, love.” His hand caresses Tommy’s cheek, as if in mockery of the brutality wants. “I see it in your eyes – you don’t need any more knocking down right now.”

Tommy’s surprised to feel a prickling in his eyes, the distant warning of tears. He feels laid so bare, in every sense – Alfie can see right through him. 

Once the initial shock passes, he’s overwhelmed with shame and rage. “You said you’d fucking punish me.” 

“Oh, I will. Just not the way you want me to,” says Alfie. “Oh, and let’s add ‘no talking’ to your no-no list this evening. No talking, and no moving, right, not til I tell you. Understand?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“No, I think you’re a much more likely candidate for getting fucked this evening, my love.” Alfie condescendingly pats his thigh and kisses him on the cheek before receding once more. He rumages for a moment in his disorganized drawer before returning with a strange apparatus that somewhat resembles a bridle. “Ring gag. Lovely invention.” Alfie jangles it. “Will help you this evening, since you seem to lack the attention span to abide by instructions. Open wide.” 

Tommy opens his mouth to tell Alfie to kindly fuck off, but Alfie clamps his hand around Tommy’s jaw and holds it open, forcing the gag inside. It holds Tommy’s mouth open, wanton and vulnerable. Alfie buckles it firmly. 

It’s jarring, not being able to close his mouth. Alfie could do so much to him like this: he could spit in it, stick his cock in it, and Tommy wouldn’t be able to do anything. As if realizing this himself, Alfie unabashedly sticks two fingers inside, rubbing circles over Tommy’s tongue.

“Now. You want this to stop, you snap your fingers. You got that?”

Tommy glares at him, and wishes he could bite. 

“Nod for me, darling, or this will warrant another punishment.”

Tommy can’t bite, but his legs are free. He kicks him. 

This earns him the spreader bar. Like the other implements, Tommy has no idea how long Alfie’s had it, waiting for the right opportunity to put it to good use. Nor can he do very much wondering, as he’s too mortified at having his legs forcibly held in a spread position like a cheap whore. What’s worse is that his dick has clearly taken interest in his helplessness, resting half-hard against his hip. 

Alfie stands at the foot of the bed, eyes dark, like a bear regarding its trapped prey. He’s taking his time, observing, soaking up Tommy’s reactions. It gives Tommy time to fully process that he’s completely powerless. That Alfie can do anything to him right now, and the bastard clearly plans to take full advantage of that.

“Now, then,” Alfie’s voice growls, “I suppose the fun can really start.”


	6. Chapter 6

Tommy’d hoped at least that “fun” would entail some degree of pain. That Alfie might break out the nipple clamps or a switch to take to his tender thighs. Tommy discovered long ago that he enjoyed pain during sex, but right now, he also needs it. To remind him that the age of tenderness is over, to shake the fear of his father out of him like crumbs from a cloth.

But Alfie, for once, has no apparent interest in hurting him. He seems much more preoccupied, of all things, with kissing him. Everywhere. All over. From top to bottom. 

Alfie lies down next to him with an ursine grunt, and starts by nosing and nibbling at his ear, at the tender flesh where the lobe connects to his upper jaw. It’s annoying, and though it’s a part of his body that he never thought of as remotely erogenous, his dick takes interest. 

Splayed helplessly on the bed, he can only watch as it bobs to full hardness. He wishes he could cover himself – it’s humiliating to have his desire on such flagrant display – or at least that Alfie would take him in hand and give him some relief. 

Alfie takes the sensitive skin between his lips and sucks, hard. Tommy was unprepared. If he could close his mouth, he could stifle the sound that threatens to emerge. But as it is, it leaves him in a pathetic whimper. Tommy closes his eyes tightly and wishes he could sink into the mattress. 

Alfie detaches with an obscene pop of his lips, probably leaving a hickey beneath Tommy’s ear. “Fucking hell, that’s a lovely fucking noise.” Alfie’s fingers run through Tommy’s hair, smoothing it from his forehead. “Belongs in a fucking symphony, that does.”

Tommy can’t look at him. But he opens his eyes as he feels the mattress shift, Alfie straddling him, pinning him down beneath his weight. Through the fabric of Alfie’s pants, Tommy can feel Alfie’s erection pressed faintly against his own, but Alfie denies him the friction he craves. He wants to hump him, but he’s not quite ready for that new level of indignity. 

Instead, Alfie takes his face between his hands. Mouth forced open, Tommy can taste the heat of Alfies breath as he laps hungrily inside, exploring unashamedly with his tongue. It lavs over the roof of Tommy’s mouth, over the backs of his teeth, like this is something Alfie’s owed. 

Tommy can’t do anything as his face is plundered – he can’t even kiss back. He starts making irritated sounds to convey his displeasure with the situation, denied the ability to articulate what a bastard Alfie’s being. 

Alfie pulls back with a dark chuckle, his lower lip glistening and eyes glittering with pleasure. “You have no idea what you do to me, right, when you make fucking sounds like that.” Tommy flushes as he hears the slide of Alfie’s zipper, and realizes that Alfie is taking himself in hand. “You sound like a little caught kitten.”

Tommy can’t even process his own anger at the statement, because he knows that Alfie is touching himself. He can actually feel the heat radiating from his hard dick, even though it’s not actually touching Tommy’s naked body. Alfie’s knuckles brush him, though, as his hand works steadily up and down.

All the while, Alfie’s eyes never leave Tommy’s. He feels inescapable, a dominant force toying with its prey. He has no shame at showing his desire – it’s just another demonstration of his control. 

Tommy closes his eyes, once again unable to look at him

It’s then that Alfie returns to his ministrations, kissing Tommy’s face all over – the lids of his closed eyes, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. His free hand never stops smoothing and caressing Tommy’s hair, and the hand on his cock never stops moving. Tommy wishes he could touch himself that way, and he’s fairly certain Alfie’s aware of this. 

Just when the air feels too hot, and Alfie’s desire feels too suffocating, Alfie begins to work his way down. He sucks hard kisses on Tommy’s neck, ignoring the indignant noises Tommy makes. 

They’ll show on Tommy’s neck tomorrow, and people might notice them. They’ll probably think they’re from a woman. 

Alfie pulls back a moment to admire his handiwork. “Lovely, that is. Better than a string of pearls,” he gloats, thumbing the damp, tenderized flesh. “You should always wear this kind of jewelry, my darling. Only the best for my favorite little slut.” 

“Fufk oo,” Tommy tries. 

Alfie looks up, delighted. “Would you repeat that, sweetie?”

Tommy refuses, not wanting to grant Alfie the satisfaction of hearing him slobber around his gag. 

“Hmm, I’m sure it will come to you.” Alfie thumbs at Tommy’s nipple, attention turning to his bare chest. “In the meantime…”

Tommy can only watch as Alfie marks up his chest with the enthusiasm of an artist. A splotchy constellation of hickies appear before his very eyes – there’s something particularly degrading about knowing that these hallmarks of Alfie’s ownership will be present beneath his suit.

Worse, Alfie’s mouth feels almost too good to bear. He sucks till it’s just on the right side of painful, nibbling at sensitive areas, moving from one spot to the next. Tommy’s prick keeps twitching, as if indignant at being neglected.

Just when Alfie’s nearing his waistline however, he stops. He looks up at Tommy, a triumphant glimmer in his eyes. “You want to come, Thomas?”

Tommy looks away. It’s practically killing him to know that Alfie can see his desire, his cock a hot pink exclamation point, begging for attention. 

“Hmm.” Alfie pats his thigh, and the bed dips as he gets up. “Well, I suppose you can go a bit longer, then.” 

Tommy looks up in a panic, genuinely afraid for a minute that Alfie will leave him like this. But Alfie rummages in the drawer and returns a minute later with a bottle of lube.

Alfie’s erection is still out, unabashed, in stark contrast with his fully clothed appearance. The sight of it makes Tommy blush, which he hopes Alfie can’t see in the dim light. 

“Hope I’m not boring you, sweetie.” Alfie crawls over the spreader bar, situating himself between Tommy’s whorishly spread legs. He pops the cap of the lube bottle, squirting it generously into his hand. “You won’t mind indulging me a bit longer, will you?” 

Tommy can only watch helplessly as Alfie slicks up his fingers, fully aware of where he’s going to put them. He’s not sure he can bear being finger-fucked right now, already too horned up to even think properly. He’s furious at being this helpless, Alfie manipulating his body and using his own desires against him. 

“Now.” Alfie leans forward, tilting his head to the side to get a better view. “Let’s see to this little hole of yours.”

He can’t bring himself to look at Alfie as two thick fingers breach him. Despite all these humiliations, Alfie’s being so terribly careful with him – usually, he takes delight in stretching Tommy out, but this time Alfie fingers him like he’s summoning a genie. Delicately stroking his insides, loosening him gingerly. 

“As uptight as the rest of you, treacle. You’re lucky I’m an honorable man, or I’d stick my dick in you just like this. Bet you’d like that, though, wouldn’t you?” 

Alfie has done that in the past, which Tommy would be glad to point out if he could speak. As it is, he’s devoting all his energy to suppressing his sounds, fingers flexing with the effort of it. 

“Go ahead and sulk if you want to, sweetie, you know it’s bloody precious. Now, let’s see if we can’t find your sweet spot.” Alfie’s fingers probe. “Is it here? Or perhaps, here?” He’s missing deliberately, Tommy can tell. Tommy wishes he could kick him again and send the fat bearded fuck sprawling on his ass. “Or maybe...here?”

Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _

The sound that leaves Tommy when Alfie’s fingers finally press down hard on his prostate is humiliating and impossible to control. It’s jarring to Tommy’s own ears, and makes him nearly want to cry with the shame of it. 

“Hmm, I’d say that’s probably it. Wouldn’t you agree, poppet?” Alfie rubs his fingers over in delicate, merciless circles, and Tommy can’t stop fucking mewling. Trying to choke off the sounds makes it even worse, because it just shows how real they are, how irresistible the pleasure. “You just let me know if I’m boring you, love. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll keep this up for a while.”

‘A while’ turns out to be well over an hour. At least, that’s what it feels like to Tommy. 

Alfie is uncharacteristically silent, his rambling commentary relegated to sporadic bursts. Tommy actually wishes he’d talk. As is, the only sounds filling the room are the horrible, humiliating noises he’s making, which he can’t fucking keep inside. It makes his face burn, tears of frustration and shame threatening to spill.

“So beautiful, love. Fucking perfect,” Alfie tells him, but he’s not, he’s fucking not. He’s weak and pathetic and odd, just like his father always said. He could have had a wife and lived like a proper man should, but all he wants is Alfie.

The constant stimulation to his prostate becomes painful after a while, and his sounds become increasingly pained, too. Alfie takes to rubbing soothing circles over his stomach and thighs with his free hand, shushing him gently and murmuring comforting words about how well he’s doing – all while those cruel fingers never relent.

Eventually, Tommy can’t take it anymore. “Pleathe.” 

Alfie looks up, as if he’s just been presented with the most precious of jewels. “Would you repeat that, sweetheart?”

Tommy’s face feels like it’s on fire, but he makes himself repeat. “Pleathe, Affie.” He sounds thick-tongued and juvenile, fucking pathetic.

“Would you like to come, my darling?” Alfie’s fingers are still moving, and Tommy’s almost impressed at the bastard’s cruelty.

He nods. 

“Use your words, love.”

This fucking cunt, this fucking sadistic bastard – “Yeth.” 

“Hmm.” Alfie seems to consider it, but Tommy can see in the glittering beads of his eyes that he won’t let him off that easily. “Beg me to fuck you, then. Go on. Ask nicely.”

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. “Pleathe –”

“Look at me as you say it.” 

He can’t. He can’t fucking do this. 

“Pleathe fuck me, Affie.”

It’s degrading on so many levels, and his jaw aches, and he can feel cold drool leaking down his chin. And the worst part is, he could end all this – the shame, the humiliation, the physical discomfort – just by snapping his fingers. He won’t. 

Because he wants this. What the fuck is wrong with him?

He doesn’t have much time to contemplate this, because Alfie is stripping off his clothes like a man possessed. If Tommy weren’t already pushed to the very outer limits of his capacity for shame, he’d blush at the sight of Alfie’s thick, sturdy, well-muscled body emerging from his ill-fitting clothes. 

The spreader bar is removed, but before Tommy can process his newfound freedom, his legs are being pushed up to his shoulders. Alfie’s hungry, ever-roving eyes take in this degrading new position. Tommy’s eyes scrunch closed. He hates that Alfie can see him like this, weak and pathetic.

“None of that now.” He can feel Alfie’s lips brushing his cheek as Alfie arranges Tommy’s legs, hooking them over Alfie’s shoulders. “You’re safe, sweetie. Do you understand you’re safe?”

It’s such a simple question, it borders on condescension. But – no, Tommy realizes. No, he doesn’t feel safe. He never feels safe. At any point, Alfie could turn on him. He could expose Tommy’s secrets to the world, or simply choke him to death right here while Tommy spasms around his cock. 

Everyone he should have been safe with has hurt him. His father. His mother. Freddy. Grace. His family. His country. He shouldn’t expect an insane Jewish gangster to be an exception to this pattern.

And yet, he can’t live without this. With Alfie, he experiences the privilege of allowing himself to be helpless. 

Alfie lines up and pushes in. Tommy whimpers, his insides oversensitive from too much stimulation. 

“Beautiful, darling.” Alfie presses kisses around Tommy’s forced-open mouth. “So beautiful. I want you to come for me, just like this.”

And Tommy does. Alfie lines up his cock so it directly hits his prostate, and he takes Tommy’s cock in his hand, stroking him in time with his thrusts. Tommy lasts four strokes – a truly embarrassing number – before he spills with a sob between them. It makes him feel minutely better that Alfie doesn’t last much longer.

* * *

Tommy’s too tired to even get up to bathe himself, so Alfie brings in a washcloth and small bucket of soapy water. 

“You had a bad day, I take it,” he says, too casual for someone cleaning his own fluids from his lover’s chest. 

Tommy nods. He’s too deflated to protest, yet somehow, he feels better. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“No,” Tommy rasps.

Alfie glances up, scowling. “Here.” He reaches for the glass on the bedside table. “Have some more water, sweetheart.”

“I can do that myself,” he mutters, but still accepts the water as it’s held to his lips. His jaw still aches, not to mention the stiffness in his arms. So at least he got some of the pain he wanted.

After Alfie finishes sponging him down, he helps him into some soft sleeping pants, ensuring that he fully feels like an invalid. 

“You hungry?” 

“You’re not my caregiver, Alfie. No, I’m not hungry. I’ll eat tomorrow.” Tommy curls up on his side, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Just want to sleep.”

Alfie’s uncharacteristically silent, but the bed bows next to him, and Alfie’s spooning him from behind. Tommy wants to melt into the warmth of him.

“I’m not going to pretend, right, that I know what’s going on, or that I have any sort of fucking qualification to handle it.” Tommy can feel his lips moving against the back of his neck as he speaks. “But I want you to know.” There’s a pause. “I want you to know, right.” 

“Want me to know what, Alfie.” Tommy’s losing patience. He has a long day tomorrow, and he wants to get some rest. 

“I want you to know, yeah.” Another annoyingly long beat of silence. “That I fucking love you.”

Now the silence infects Tommy, too – as heavy and sure as Alfie’s weight. He should be panicked, but he’s too exhausted for that. To his surprise, he finds that he wants to say it back. 

“You don’t have to say it. All in due time, yeah,” Alfie’s making his tone overly casual. “Probably before the wedding, but after works too, if you’re so inclined. There’s no rush when it’s destiny, innit.”

He’s surprisingly comforted by Alfie’s assertion that they’re destined to be married. Though it normally brings him nothing but annoyance, now he finds that it alleviates the pressure. He doesn’t have to say it right now. Alfie will love him anyway.

Alfie loves him. He’s still processing that. Alfie loves him. 

It shouldn’t mean as much to him as it does. 

Alfie’s arms encircle him and hold his wrists together, in a gentle display of dominance. He still doesn’t feel safe, not completely. But he can pretend to be, just for tonight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, everyone! Next installment in this series will deal more with Arthur Senior's treachery, and with the rest of the family finding out about Alfie.


End file.
